


bitter

by euriele



Series: put on your war paint [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euriele/pseuds/euriele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lieutenant Bitters, from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitter

Chorus.

This is your home. Capital City to be specific, Yabun District. The slums. This is your home. This house made of corrugated steel and plastic sheeting with a hole in the ceiling that lets in the rain. The wall – more specifically, the ragged curtain – that separates yours and your brothers’ room from your parents. The single window covered with grime and dried up blood. The tiny stove, the coffee table with one leg shorter than the other, the flat and lifeless pillows you use as chairs. It’s all you have.

You’re lucky. Luckier than most. Some people don’t have a house with a hole in the ceiling. It could be a lot worse.

There’s a war going on outside your front door. There’s people dying in the streets. The Covenants are never able to take the city, but they do get in every once in a while, leave the remains of the humans who are unfortunate enough to cross them lying on the doorsteps of others.

That’s where the dried blood on the single window comes from. You see the whole incident, crouched down low in the shack of the house with your three bothers. You hear it on the radio; hear the presenter say that there are Elites in the city, in your district. You make your brothers hide in their room; make them curl under the ragged blankets whilst you crouch by the window. You peak once, just in time to see the woman blown to bits right in front of your house.

That was weeks ago, and they still haven’t gotten the blood off of the walls and window.

 

*

 

Your name is Alecsander Bitters. Everyone calls you Alec. You only get called Alecsander once, when you let you stole from the market to make sure your brothers got to eat that night. You get a slap on the face, get told that stealing is beneath you, and you’re made to take the cabbages back to the shopkeeper. He also takes a swing at you.

The teacher at your school calls you Bitters. She tells you your namesake, passes you every Alecsander Clarke book she has, tells you that he’s Chorus’s most well-known author. You read all of his books in a week, stay up and waste candles as you fight your way through Clarke’s books on the history of Chorus. They’re good reads, and they pique your interest in history.

The stall owners in the market call you all sorts of names, most of them inappropriate. They don’t like you, or your brothers or your parents. You don’t like them either. You hate the way their bellies protrude from beneath their silken clothing whilst most of the people in your district can count their ribs. You hate their shiny red faces, hate the gold jewellery around their necks and wrists. You make a point of stealing from the fattest of them.

You have many names. Alec is your favourite.

 

*

 

You lose your father in the Great War.

He’s drafted, your mother tells you one night. You’re fourteen years old, the only one old enough to understand what’s happening. The twins are only five years old, and Eliot is three. Your mother’s stomach is swelling with your fourth sibling. She tells you that your father’s been drafted, that he’s a Marine now and he’s going to fight in the war and that he’s going to be a hero.

It’s barely six weeks later when you wake up early and find the UNSC Marines flag and your father’s positions in a box on the doorstep. You shake your mother awake, hold the flag and the box out with trembling arms. Wince when she screams, back away as she curls in on herself, wraps her arms around her stomach and carries on screaming into the mat. You keep your brothers out of the house, refuse to tell them what’s wrong.

You hang the flag on the wall above yours and your brothers’ bed. It only seems right, you think.

 

*

 

You’re seventeen when the Great War ends.

It started in 2525, eight years before you’re born. It officially ends on the 3rd of March, 2553, a week before your eighteenth birthday. The figures come through over the radio, the announcer chokes when she says an estimated 23 billion people were killed due to the war.

Your father was only one of 23 billion. Insignificant in hindsight, but a huge impact on how your life has gone.

You have a baby brother. He’s three years old, clings to your leg like a vice whenever you try to leave and insists on sleeping beside you at night. You named him, since your mother would not. You called him Chance. The twins think the name is stupid, but you like it enough.

You wanted to be a historian. You know the history of Chorus like the back of your hand, know the names and birthdates and families of the Primes, the first humans on Chorus. You know the name of the ship that brought them here. You know the name of all the Presidents from the time where the government was set up. You know the dates of the founding of the Capital City, every important landmark and battle.

It counts for nothing, unfortunately. You have to finish school at fourteen, give it all up to make sure your family gets through each day. Your mother suffers an accident after Chance is born, gets run over when she’s out in the city. You know it was no accident. She’s sent to the communal hospital, gets patched up as best as she can. A broken spine isn't easily healed, though. Not without money. So, Mother won't walk ever again.

It’s a challenge getting through day-to-day life. Ration shortages make it difficult to feed your five family members. The twins opt to wake up in the mornings, to travel out of the city and fish the whole day and cook whatever they catch. Most days, they don’t catch anything.

With the Great War over, you think you’re safe. You think things will get better. You think you might be able to go back to school, get a real job, help your family all the more.

You think you’ll live happily ever after. 

 

*

 

But the war outside your door isn’t over. It’s getting worse. 

 

*

 

The UNSC pulls out of Chorus, forgets it. Chorus sits on the edge of colonized space, so far out that the UNSC doesn’t have the time for it anymore. It’s no surprise really. Chorus is a small planet with a small population.

You don’t see the problem with the UNSC leaving until you see the news, hear the President announce that they’re self-governing. You don’t think much on it for a while, until the laws get stricter, until there are protests in the street, once rations for the poor are cut but rations for the rich are kept the same.

You hear about the New Republic from someone in the rundown stable of a place that passes for a bar in the Yuban District. A deep voiced, broad-shouldered man two tables over mentions them in passing, mentions someone called Commander Stark. You’re a smart boy, a smart boy who listens to the radio every day and has read every history book you can get your hands on. You’ve never come across a Commander Stark.

So you sit at this man’s table, learn that his name is Hardy, Captain Hardy of the New Republic. He tells you about Commander Stark, the man who’s leading a revolution. You’re intrigued. Listen closely. Listen to how Hardy tells you that the New Republic fights for justice, fights to tackle a government drunk on its own corruption.

He asks you to fight for them. You draw the line.

You don’t fight someone else’s war.

 

*

 

You meet Palomo on the way home.

You’ve seen him around before, seen him begging in the slums. He’s the homeless type, one of those who don’t have a shack with a hole in the roof to go back to. You remember that he lost his parents, both Marines. He has to use their flags to keep warm at night.

Palomo has lighter skin than you, eyes magnified by his scratched and cracked glasses. A collection of scars down the left side of his face from a bottle, you remember. Too big teeth, two missing fingers on the left hand from when he was caught stealing. These are Palomo’s defining features, and that’s how you recognize him between the legs of his attackers.

He’s down on the floor, curled in on himself. You know his attackers, the ones who kick at him and try to pull what looks like a small tin of food from his hands. You’ve seen them before, roughing up the less fortunate and taking their food. Palomo is their next target and you better than to butt in. But Palomo is barely sixteen, barely an adult. You know this is wrong.

So you butt in.

You get beat up for your troubles. One second, you’re trying to tell the attackers to stop, trying to pull them away from Palomo. The next, you’re on the floor with blood in your mouth and a broken nose. They kick and kick and kick at you until Palomo screeches at them to stop. They listen to him and leave, but not before pulling the tin from Palomo’s hands. He doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he crawls to you, turns you over onto your front.

His face hovers above your own, concern clearer than the sky behind him. You have a brilliant view of his front teeth hanging over his bottom lip. You can see every scratch in his glasses, each and every crack in the lenses.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks.

“Peachy,” you cough, rubbing a hand across your chest. You there’ll be bruises there later, more questions from your mother. Roll over, spit onto the filthy pavement. Palomo winces at the bloody spit, goes a bit paler. You see he’s got a split lip, a bruise already blossoming on his cheek.

He helps you stand, steadies you when you stumble. He has to help you walk back home, keeps mumbling apologies under his breath until you say, “Shut the fuck up, Palomo.” He just smiles and says sorry again.

Your mother frets, of course. Her voice takes on that panicky falsetto when she sees you stumble through the door with Palomo by your side, blood on your chin and shirt. She makes you sit on the coffee table, pushes aside the candles and bowls and cleans up your face. Palomo tries to sneak out at one point, finds the door blocked by the twins.

He tells Mother what happened, tells her how you stepped in and saved him. She asks him if he has anywhere to go, invites him to spend the night when he tells her he doesn’t.

It happens so suddenly. You never have a say in whether or not Palomo becomes your brother. 

 

*

 

“Hey, Alec?” Palomo says one night. You’re both sat outside on the doorstep of the shack, a cigarette sitting between your fingers as you watch the sunset with him.

“Hm?”

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

Roll your eyes. “Don’t go philosophical on me.”

“Alec, please.”

Look at him, notice he’s wringing his wrists and arch an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“You answer my question first!”

You sigh. “I don’t know, man. I guess we’re here because we’re here.”

“That’s a sucky answer.” Palomo watches a beetle run across the ground beneath it, presses his hand against the ground and lets the beetle crawl onto his tanned hand. “I think we each have a purpose, a role to play.”

“Where you going with the conversation?” Rub a hand across your forehead, look at him. He doesn’t look at you. He avoids your eyes.

“I’m joining the New Republic.”

Don’t register his words. Sit and stare at him for several moments before swearing and flicking your cigarette away without finishing it. “You fucking serious?”

You know the New Republic well. Ever since your conversation with Captain Hardy, you’ve kept up with the news. You know that Commander Stark was killed in battle last week, that Captain Hardy is now better known as Commander Hardy, the leader of the New Republic. You know that New Republic soldiers die in their dozens, that they think they’re going to change the world but only end up in a wooden box in the ground.

Joining them is a death sentence. You and Palomo know this.

“I am,” Palomo says. He stares at the beetle on his hand, watches it crawl over his fingers. You watch it circle around his thumb, jump off and crawl away down the path. Palomo rubs at the joint of his thumb, picks at the dirt on his skin. “I said that I think we all have a purpose in life. I think this is mine.”

You think about the stories on the radio, the woman blown to bits on your doorstep, your father lost to war. You make a decision. “I’ll go with you.”

Palomo’s head snaps up, his eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“You can’t. You have a family –“

“That can take care of themselves. The twins are old enough. A job in the army means more money.”

“It means it could get you killed.”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you.” 

 

*

 

Your family doesn’t take it very well.

Mother cries, says you’re going to die out there. The twins don’t speak to you; Eliot refuses to look at either you or Palomo. Chance doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why Mother cries or why the twins stay down by the river longer than they need to. He clings to your shirt, refuses to let go. You have to pry his fingers one by one, tell yourself to not cry.

You’re going to miss it. You’re going to miss your shack with a hole in the roof. The UNSC flag above your head, the window covered in grime, the books lined up on the shelves. The three pictures in the windowsill – your parents on their wedding day, you and your four brothers by the river, you and father when you were five years old. You’re going to miss all of it.

Don’t cry, Alec. Don’t cry. It ruins the image of apathy, of being strong. You’ve had to be strong for them before, so carry on being strong now. Turn your back and walk away. Delusion yourself, tell yourself that you’ll see them again.

This isn’t goodbye.

 

*

 

You meet Katie during basic training.

You think it’s a joke at first, having this kid in the army. You think she’s just lost, that she was meant to be somewhere else. But no, she’s meant to be here. And you can’t help think that it’s cruel.

She’s young, far too young. You learn that she was meant to be at college. She tells you that over dinner that night, that she was meant to be studying for her biology degree. She wanted to be a scientist, she says. You think about your teacher, the history books you used to steal from the garbage.

She tells you that her college was bombed the day she arrived, that the Federal Army found the children of New Republic soldiers studying there. She survived, tells you how she had to crawl her way out of the rubble of her dorm. You look at this girl. She’s eighteen, a splodge of freckles across her face like chocolate drips and braces on her teeth. Cat earrings in her earlobes, wide glasses with a thick frame, a heavy lisp when she talks. Katie Jensen isn’t a soldier.

But you aren’t either.

 

*

 

Commander Hardy is killed during a so-called peace treaty.

You’re there, working security with your squad. Palomo is in your squad. The two of you stand with the others at one end of the stage, don’t see the sniper until the blood explodes from the side of Hardy’s head.

Stand still and watch as Hardy collapses, arm still outstretched. He was just about to shake the hand of the President, just about to end the war. Do nothing, Alec. Just stand still and watch the President look at the blood at his lapel before the bullets start to hit the wood at your feet.

 

*

 

You survive.

Commander Hardy is dead. Half of your squad is dead. But you and Palomo are alive.

You get out of the fire-fight that ensues before Commander Hardy's body hits the floor. A bullet clips you through the left calf, makes you fall down onto one knee. Palomo runs back, loops an arm around your shoulder and hauls you off towards the van you travelled to Capital City in. You're thrown in the back. Look back just in time to see the members of your squad falling, holes in their abdomens and legs, before the van doors slam shut.

The New Republic's hired gun, Felix, traipses into the camp later. He has the dog tags of your squad members. Stare at his clenched fist, at the chains in it. Don't cry, Alec.

The new commander is Commander Humbert.

There's a betting pool on how long she lasts. You bet six months.

 

*

 

You win.

 

*

 

Commander Kimball is the youngest commander you've served under.

You're too battered to care any more. No one calls you Alec any more. Everyone calls you Bitters. Someone - some kid called Ganoosh - says that your name suits your attitude. You don't reply. Just take another drag from your cigarette and ignore Ganoosh.

Commander Kimball is greener than grass. You think she won't last three months.

 

*

 

You're wrong.

 

*

 

You and Palomo watch the stars one night. He turns to you and asks, "You ever hear the story of the Reds and Blues?"

 

*

 

Dexter Grif is your new CO.

Your armour is highlighted orange to match his. You're promoted to Lieutenant, second in command of the "Gold Team". Grif throws a bitch fit, shouts about how his armour is orange.

You find yourself liking this new CO. He's lazy and laid-back. Totally your style. His training sessions include infiltrating the mess hall. It's the easiest job in the world.

Palomo isn't so lucky.

His CO seems to hate him, seems to hate his happy go-lucky attitude. You pass by them one morning, hear Captain Tucker tell Palomo to shut the fuck up. The look on Palomo's face - the pout, the watering eyes - make you approach the captain, ask him why he's got such a fucking big stick up his ass.

Get a punch to the face for your troubles, but Palomo's thanks later on makes it worth it.

 

*

 

Lieutenant John Smith shares a room with you.

He's a beast of a man. Where you are lanky and stooped, he's tall and proud with muscles you'd kill to have. He might've once been handsome, but he's marred by scars now, criss-crossing over his cheeks and nose and forehead. There are too many to count. You ask him about them. He only tells you he's been serving the New Republic for a long time now, that these scars are the proof of his service. You don't ask again.

Despite his intimidating outer appearance, Smith is one of the nicest people you've met. He's undyingly loyal, would take a bullet to save a squad member. He doesn't tolerate badmouthing the captains, especially Caboose, his captain. You find that you actually like the man.

But Smith has nightmares.

Smith screams during his nightmares, screams until you jump up from bed and run to shake him awake. Hold him, just hold him as he sobs, clings to your shirt and stains it with salt water until he's got no more tears to waste. Only then does he sit back, wipe his eyes and apologise to you. Say nothing. Just wait until he clears his eyes, regains his composure.

You don't have to ask. He just tells you.

He pulls out the stack of photos, shows them to you. Shows you the woman with corn coloured hair and orange freckles across her face and a crown of daisies and forget-me-nots in her hair. She was his wife, Smith tells you.

He tells you that he's been part of the New Republic for years, that she was a civilian. The Feds learned about the wedding.

Their wedding theme was white. He wore a white suit. One of the guests stood up just as they exchanged their vows and shot Smith's wife twice in the chest. She died in his arms.

You think she's beautiful. You think she deserved better.

 

*

 

Palomo comes back from a mission in tears.

He tells you the other two members of his squad were killed, tells you that Locus got to Cunningham and that Rogers was killed in an explosion. He's the only survivor of Green team now, him and his CO.

You hate Locus all the more.

 

*

 

Kimball calls you out of the mess hall one night.

She stands at the end of the table you sit at with Smith, Jensen, Palomo and the Captains. The eight of you are out of armour, but Kimball’s still in hers, helmet underarm. You can see the others glance at each other as you stand.

Follow her out of the mess hall and across the camp to her office. Take the seat she offers to you and glance around; note the star charts and maps and the red strings attaching points together. Kimball sits down on the other side of the desk, puts her helmet on the desk beside her.

She doesn’t look at you for the longest time. She huffs a sigh, runs her hand over her buzzed hair. Then she finally looks you in the eye. You can see a glint of gold on her tongue as she talks. “I don’t know how to break this to you nicely, so I’ll say it straight.”

Frown, tilt your head to the side.

“Last night, the Yabun District of Capital City was bombed. Flattened.”

Feel your blood run cold.

“The Feds found out that a lot of support for the New Republic was coming from there. So they levelled the entire district.”

Your hand begins to tremble.

“I’m sorry Bitters. Your family was caught in the blast.”

Don’t say anything. Hold you gaze with Kimball. Look her straight in those piercing golden eyes and don’t say anything. Don’t cry, you tell yourself. Don’t cry. Not in front of the commander.

There are a million things you want to say, but instead you ask, “May I be excused?”

Your voice is surprisingly level.

“Of course.” Kimball looks sympathetic, like she knows you want to grieve in privacy.

You stand, leave her office without another word. You round the corner at the end of the corridor and slam your fist into the wall five times.

It feels good, doesn’t it? The pain feels good. The way you actually leave a dent in the wall feels good. The blood running down the back of your hand feels good. You step back, breathing heavily and look at the split skin on your knuckles. You stand and just breath, regain your composure.

Walk back into the mess hall, hide you bloody hand in your lap. You try and brush off what you've been told, try and force yourself to eat. But you look at the food on your tray, feel your stomach churn and push it away. Rub a hand across your eyes, swallow thickly. Ignore the concerned glances from Palomo beside you and Smith and Jensen across from you. Control your emotions, don't break down. Not yet.

"Bitters?"

You can't be bothered dealing with Palomo. Ignore him.

"Hey, buddy? You doing okay? You look ill."

Ignore him.

"Bitters?"

Grit your teeth.

"Holy shit, is that blood on your hand?"

Snap.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, PALOMO!" you shout.

The mess hall goes silent. You freeze. There are tears in Palomo's eyes, shock on his face. Katie's frozen with her spoon halfway to her mouth and Smith has stopped mid-chew. You realise it's the first time you've shown emotion, the first time you've ever snapped. You've never snapped before, Alec. You've never been anything but apathetic. You always buried your emotions deep, put on that persona of not caring and played the tough-guy. This is the first time you've ever snapped. And you feel everything crumbling down onto you. You feel the weight of what you'e been told smacking you as you stare at Palomo in shock. It truly hits you. You realise your family is gone.

The house with a hole in the roof? Gone.

Your mother in her squealing wheelchair? Gone.

The twins, who used to go fishing each morning? Gone.

Eliot? Who wanted to be a mechanic? Gone.

Chance? Little Chance? He's gone too.

Feel the sob work it's way up your chest as you think of Chance, of how he clung to your shirt the day you left and how you had to pry his fingers off one by one and how you promised him you'd come back -

Cry, Alec. Let it all out.

Bury your face in your hands and sob. Cry for the first time in your life. Cry, because you've only ever hidden emotion to appear strong for your family. You were their rock, and they yours. They're gone now, so you can cry all you want. There's no one left to be strong for.

Katie's spoon clatters against her bowl. She jumps up, walks around the table and pulls you up. Don't protest. Let her pull you to the door with Smith at your heels and Palomo right behind him. You hear the chatter start up the moment you're out the door, hear Ganoosh's familiar voice asking what the hell is wrong with you. Ignore it. Ganoosh isn't as important as your grief.

Katie takes you back to your room, lies you down on the bed with your head in her lap as you scream away your anguish. Scream, Alec, scream. Scream until your throat is bloody and raw and cry until you have no more tears to waste. Grip Katie's hand tight, comfort yourself with the knowledge that your friends are there.

But don't forget that you're all alone now.

 

*

 

You wake up in the dead of night.

Katie's fast asleep in Smith's bunk. The man himself is on the floor at the end of your bed, head lolling back onto your mattress. Palomo is nowhere to be seen. You push yourself up, rub at your sore eyes.

You need fresh air.

Leave the room. Tiptoe past Katie in Smith's bed and gingerly step over Smith's legs. Leave the room and make your way out of the barracks. Stand outside, breathe in the fresh air and realise you want to talk to someone.

No, you  _need_ to talk to someone.

 

*

 

You're not sure how you end up outside your CO's room, but you do.

You knock, wait in anxious silence for a few seconds before Grif appears in the doorway, wiping sleep from his eyes. He takes one look at you, takes in your red-rimmed eyes and your trembling hands before he stands aside and lets you in the room without a word. You step in, take in the wall completely covered in photographs. Step forwards, look at each of them in turn. A girl who looks like your CO flipping off the camera, a perfect white sand beach, the girl posing with Grif beside her, Simmons waving from a Warthog, an elderly man aiming his shotgun at the camera, Caboose and Tucker arm-in-arm with a disgruntled looking man in blue and yellow armour. Most of the pictures revolve around the girl and Simmons. You reach out, push down the curling edge of one of the oldest.

"My sister," Grif says, noting the one you're looking it. It's him as a child, holding a little bundle in his hands.

"You have a sister?" you ask, turning to look at your CO.

"Yeah,"  he sighs, pulling the photo from the wall and smiling down at it fondly. "God knows where she is now."

You look back at the photos, note one of Grif and his sister, both of whom are in power armour.

"You have siblings." It's a statement, not a question.

"Had," you spit bitterly. Glare at the floor, refuse to meet Grif's eyes.

"I know what happened." Look up at him sharply, watch him shrug. "I had to go ask Kimball after what happened earlier. And... well, I'm sorry, man."

Don't say anything. Feel the tears springing to your eyes again. Take a shuddering breath and cover your eyes with your hands. Grif rests a hand on your shoulder, says, "C'mon."

He sits you down at his desk, produces a bottle of whiskey out of nowhere. When he notices your questioning look, he grins. "Felix is a good person to be friends with."

He presses a drink into your hands a few moments later, sits on the edge of his bed and just waits. Waits, until you finish your glass and then launch into your story. Tell him about your father and how he went off to war. Tell him about your mother's accident. Tell him about Chance, and how he clung to your leg the day you left. Tell him about Eliot and how he once built a mini-robot out of spare parts he found in the garbage. Tell him about the twins, how they can they knew every type of fish and insect possible. Tell him about the books you used to read, how you'd never wanted to be a soldier, about how you wanted to be a historian and make something more of your life.

Tell him you never wanted to be apart of a war. Tell him you just wanted to be Alecsander Bitters.

Tell him you're alone now.

He lets you ramble. He lets you go on and on until the sun comes up and shines through the window. You drink your way through the bottle; Grif only has one glass. Your words are slurring together, your mind is clogged. You like it. You like being drunk.

It distracts you from reality.

 

*

 

Katie bursts in with Smith at her heels. She's red in the face, panting for breath and brushing her hair out of her sweaty face. You don't have time to speak before she says, "Tucker and Palomo are gone."

 

*

 

It's three days before Palomo and Tucker come back.

You spend three days in agony, begging Kimball to let you go after Palomo. She tells you no, because the last time she radioed them, they told her they were going to Capital City. You try and sneak out, get caught and sent back to the camp. Jensen and Smith are officially designated your babysitters after that little incident. Grif tells you to take time off until your head is on right.

Felix is sent after Palomo and Tucker. He brings them back to the camp in one piece. And Palomo is holding something in his hands, something that he holds out to you when you come storming over to shout. You stop, take the three photos from his hands and gape at them, because they're the photos from the windowsill at your house. Your parents on their wedding day, you and your brothers by the river, and you and your father when you were five years old.

Smile, Alec.

Let yourself smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so this was written for mack (michaeljcaboosie.tumblr.com) after we had a conversation about bitters and threw some headcanons around.
> 
> and this was an experiment for me. i've never written bitters or the lieutenants before, and i've never written in first person before. please let me know what you think in the comments.


End file.
